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  Then he turned to survey the collection of bedraggled soldiers:

  ‘Now, where are the rest of your men? I will need them all to report here in the courtyard at dusk. I want to organize a search party. Have them bring provisions for ten days. But first, treat this monk’s injuries. And get rid of this corpse. When that’s done I want to question the boy. Have him cleaned up and then bring him to me. I will set up my headquarters here, in the monastery’s library . . .’

  He glanced at the heavens in disgust. ‘. . . Surely at least that will be dry. And get a generator in here and some lights.’

  With that, the Colonel marched briskly towards the door to the prayer hall and disappeared into the gloom.

  4

  The steel door slammed shut behind Nancy Kelly and she was led down a long, poorly lit brick corridor. As her footsteps echoed along the walls a feeling of dread engulfed her. It seemed that they would be questioning her about Anton Herzog. They were suspicious; or Herzog had already been condemned and simply had to be found. Either way, she was certain they had got the wrong woman for their interrogation. She would throw no light on their case. Despite worshipping Herzog as a journalist, she knew nothing about the man. She could picture him in her mind’s eye holding court in the newsroom, back on one of his rare visits, mesmerizing all around him with his extraordinary tales. But as to his private life, the real personality behind the glittering façade, his motivations, his politics, she knew absolutely nothing, and her feeling of absolute ignorance only compounded her fear. She began to feel that she was falling into a nightmare world, that like Alice in Wonderland she was entering a realm where, precisely because she didn’t know what she was being accused of, she would never be able to clear her name.

  But what choice had she had? From Captain Hundalani’s terse, hostile manner, it was quite clear that she was in very deep already, although her exact legal status was academic right now: she was being taken away against her will, without any chance to talk to a lawyer, and that was all that mattered. For all she knew she was about to disappear into some hellhole jail and no one would ever know . . . Perhaps that was exactly what had happened to Anton Herzog . . . Maybe he had been languishing for the past few months in an overcrowded stinking cell somewhere in the Delhi Central Prison, riddled with disease and wondering why no one had bothered to find him.

  The corridor led to another corridor and then down some steps, through several doors and finally into a part of the police station that more resembled a normal office building than a penitentiary. The Sikh policeman knocked on a nondescript door and then opened it and motioned to her to go in.

  Behind a desk sat a middle-aged, bland-looking Indian man. His nondescript face was featureless to the point of being completely forgettable. From nowhere, Nancy suddenly remembered something that one of her CIA contacts had once said while they were having coffee on Times Square, that all the best Intelligence operatives look like nobodies, like bank clerks, or people you see in a doctor’s waiting room. ‘They are so completely ordinary that they never ever stand out in a crowd; in fact even when they are on their own you don’t notice them. They are our most prized assets; you can look right at them but your mind simply blanks them out.’

  It was only the man’s eyes that were in any way exceptional. There was a coldness about them that ran completely against the grain of his otherwise banal exterior. His voice surprised her. He snapped an order and there was an impatience and irritation to it that she hadn’t expected.

  ‘Take her handcuffs off, there’s no need for those.’

  While the policeman unlocked the cuffs, the man stood up and stepped round the desk and then quite unexpectedly he pulled out the chair for her.

  ‘Please, Miss Kelly, have a seat.’

  Nancy sat down, even more confused than before. He returned to his seat behind the desk.

  ‘I’m so sorry that I had to ask you to come in . . .’

  At this she bridled.

  ‘I wasn’t asked. I was ordered.’ She rubbed her wrists. ‘And the handcuffs were completely unnecessary . . .’

  For a second the man appeared to be genuinely sympathetic:

  ‘I’m sorry. These young officers, they sometimes have no idea. I will have a word with Captain Hundalani . . .’

  The note of sympathy gave Nancy the hope that some measure of righteous indignation was justified. ‘And what the hell do you think you are doing coming round and thumping on the door and waking me up like that and threatening me with arrest? Are you trying to intimidate me?’

  Very suddenly the man’s dark eyes flashed at her in anger. Quite instinctively, she realized that she would have to be more careful. When he spoke again, the man’s voice was curt and uncompromising:

  ‘Ms Kelly, this is not North America. India is not a rich country yet. In Delhi our police force is stretched to the limit. We do not have that much time. And I can assure you that the gravity of your situation more than justifies our actions.’

  The man pushed away his chair and stood up and stared at her with dispassion verging on contempt.

  ‘Besides, I won’t have a North American criticizing our methods. I believe that one in every three black men has been in jail at some point in America. That doesn’t sound to me like a fair and well-functioning system.’

  Frightened though she was, Nancy was determined not to show it.

  ‘I suggest you advance your complaints to the American Embassy. Much as I agree with your concerns about American justice, I’m a journalist not a judge.’

  But whoever this man was he was clearly in no mood to discuss her arrest any further. As he glanced away, she had a second to collect her thoughts. Arguing with him wasn’t going to help. He was clearly very senior and she suspected that he could do whatever he wanted with her. Before she could speak again, he said, ‘I am Inspector Lall. You have been brought here because of the Herzog affair.’

  Her heart sank. The Herzog affair – it sounded ever more serious, and worse, every time anyone mentioned Anton Herzog she got the distinct feeling that they assumed that she was on intimate terms with her predecessor and that she was already acquainted with the details of whatever it was that they were investigating.

  She stammered, ‘Listen, I’ve already told Captain Hundalani, I have no idea what you are talking about. I hardly even know Anton Herzog. I was sent to replace him. The Trib – the International Herald Tribune – is a massive international operation. Now you must allow me to see a lawyer or a representative from my Embassy.’

  The man eyed her with his steady cold gaze before he turned to the policeman standing guard at the door and said, ‘Please call in Mr Arumagum.’

  The guard disappeared into the hall and the man returned to his seat. There was a coldness to his voice that frightened her to the core.

  ‘A lawyer is on the way, Miss Kelly. May I suggest that you try to answer my questions when he arrives? I don’t particularly want to ask them, but this is serious. Believe me, it is very serious. If you would rather go down to the cells and think things through, then that is your prerogative. We’ll try not to forget about you. You’d be advised not to touch anyone down there. We wouldn’t want you to contract leprosy.’

  A chill ran down her spine. The door opened and the policeman re-entered the room, followed by a short, bald, tired-looking man in his fifties, with very dark skin and a pair of thick spectacles. Inspector Lall introduced him with a wave of his hand – a gesture that seemed to show that he thought the whole thing was a charade and a waste of time.

  ‘Ms Kelly, this is your legal representative, Mr Arumagum. Please ask him any questions that you want.’

  Nancy looked in despair at the tired old man who sat next to her. He inspired not one iota of hope, but he was all they would permit her. Barely concealing her desperation she asked, ‘What’s going on? Are they allowed to do this to me? You’ve got to help me . . .’

  Mr Arumagum nodded his head and adjusted his spectacles and then, fum
bling, he pulled a business card out of his pocket.

  ‘Ms Kelly, here is my card.’

  She almost screamed at him in frustration, ‘I don’t want your damn card. I want to get out of here. Just tell me what is going on . . .’

  Flustered, the lawyer cleared his throat. Inspector Lall had folded his arms over his chest and was watching the exchange with a mixture of boredom and impatience. Mr Arumagum said, ‘You are being held on suspicion of espionage. Consequently, all your usual rights are suspended under Article 3, section 7, of the Terrorism and Espionage Act of 2005. You can be detained without trial for a period of one hundred and thirty days, at which point a judge will assess whether you are still a significant enough danger to the state to warrant incarceration for a further one hundred and thirty days. You have no visiting rights, no rights of bail. The maximum sentence for espionage is the death penalty and for being an accessory to espionage it is twenty-five years. I believe you are being held under suspicion of being an accessory . . .’

  It seemed to Nancy Kelly that Mr Arumagum’s face had merged with the grey walls and the sound of his voice tailed off into the distance. For almost a minute her elbows rested heavily on the table top in front of her and she found she could only bury her face in the palms of her hands. Then she looked up again at Inspector Lall. Her voice was cracking: ‘An accessory to espionage? This is insane . . .’

  There was another deadening, terrifying silence, and then she said, trying not to let desperation creep into her voice, ‘What about my Embassy? What about my paper? I demand you contact them immediately.’

  ‘That will be done,’ stated Mr Arumagum, in a flat voice which suggested he knew that would do no good either.

  Inspector Lall nodded in reply, then said, in an unnerving, dry voice, ‘Now, Miss Kelly, if we can begin.’

  He opened the thick file that lay on the desk in front of him and peered through his glasses.

  ‘You attended university in Paris, at the Sorbonne. Correct?’

  Striving to maintain her sense of defiance, Nancy replied:

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were there from 1997 to 2000. Correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you say that you barely know Mr Anton Herzog?’

  Again she pleaded with him:

  ‘Yes. I’ve met him a couple of times. That’s all. In the office. He is not a friend, he’s not even someone I work with . . .’

  A note of impatience entered Inspector Lall’s voice.

  ‘Ms Kelly, it is really important that you are absolutely honest in your responses. I will ask the question one more time only. But first let me tell you that we already know that Anton Herzog taught at the Sorbonne for a year – 1998 to 1999; he was on sabbatical from the International Herald Tribune and he was allegedly teaching a writing course. Secondly, we also know that he was Chair of the committee that awarded you the cub reporter’s scholarship when you first started on the newspaper. Now you have arrived to cover his job. You look more like a protégée to me, than someone who doesn’t know him at all. ’

  Nancy Kelly shook her head in disbelief. Their case was thin; their assumptions broad. It was ludicrous, but Inspector Lall was staring at her, as if she must now confess everything. Trying to remain calm, she said, ‘I never even met Herzog when I was at the Sorbonne. I wasn’t really switched on about top journalists in those days. I was just your average student – handing in papers late, going to bars. Anyway, even if I had known him there, what’s the big deal? It wouldn’t make me a protégée. Loads of people know Herzog. He’s a rightly celebrated international journalist. And my getting this job, I mean likewise, what does that prove? I worked hard for this promotion and I got it on merit. I can’t imagine what you’re trying to suggest.’

  The man looked at her almost pityingly, then he turned over the page in the file.

  ‘Did you know what Mr Herzog was doing in India and Tibet, Miss Kelly?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. He was reporting for the Tribune. Most recently he was investigating a story about the melting of the glaciers on the Tibetan plateau . . . That was what he was doing when the newspaper last had contact with him . . .’

  She dried up under Inspector Lall’s scornful gaze.

  ‘Do go on,’ he said with a sneer.

  ‘Well, the massive Tibetan glaciers are melting and they supply all the water to the seven holy rivers of Asia: the Yellow River, the Ganges, the Brahmaputra . . . And this means they also supply the drinking water for 50 per cent of the world’s population. If the glaciers disappear the rivers will dry up and there will be no more water for people to drink. There will be drought and famine and war. It is a big story . . .’

  ‘So this was Herzog’s cover?’

  ‘His cover? For what? This was what he was working on, as far as I know. And really that’s all I know, that’s what the editor of the Trib – Dan Fischer – told me. Why would my editor lie to me? This is what Herzog was doing when the Trib lost all trace of him. His whereabouts are now unknown, as far as I’m aware – though if you have any idea where he might be, then all of us at the Trib would love to know.’

  Mr Lall turned the page again and said in a low voice:

  ‘Believe me, Miss Kelly, we would dearly like to find Mr Herzog. We would dearly like to.’

  For almost a minute, they sat in silence. Mr Lall slowly turned the pages in the file until he had worked his way through the entire folder, and then, abruptly, he shut it and looked up. ‘This is pointless.’

  Looking at the Sikh policeman he said, ‘Please get the package for Miss Kelly.’

  5

  The orderly placed Colonel Jen’s bags next to an old wooden desk in the monastery library. The Colonel did not even notice. He was walking slowly back down the gloomy book-lined stone hall, accompanied by a Captain from the PSB. As he walked, the heels of his boots clicked crisply on the flagstone floor. He shone the torch over the spines of ancient yak-skin books. Piles of books stood on the flagstone floor, having already been scrutinized and cast aside by the Colonel. Without taking his eyes off the shelves, Jen said to the Captain. ‘If ever it was here, it’s gone.’

  Then turning suddenly to the Captain he asked, ‘Are you sure you searched everywhere else?’

  The Captain, his eyes also scanning the shelves, answered, ‘Yes sir. Every last inch. We’ve checked every flagstone and every brick. I am quite sure.’

  The Captain hauled down a heavy volume from the shelf in front of them and opened it at random. After flicking through the pages and glancing at the text, he shut it and replaced it.

  The Colonel looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t waste your time. It isn’t here. That fat army idiot scared the monks off. If they ever had it, they took it with them. Or we’ve come to the wrong monastery.’

  ‘But this is the only gompa in Pemako.’

  ‘Correction: it is the only gompa that we know of. But there are stories which describe another.’ Colonel Jen gave his colleague a strange look. ‘You know of where I speak, Captain?’

  ‘Yes sir, of course. But surely that is a myth. This whole region has been surveyed many times by aeroplane.’

  ‘Captain, your confidence in our air force is touching – but I wouldn’t be so sure. Flying in these parts of the world is exceptionally dangerous and even the best surveyors must sometimes be tempted to just draw their maps from the comfort of their barracks. Who, after all, is ever going to check? Besides, the ancient accounts of this other gompa are too numerous, and too persistent, to be casually ignored.’

  Colonel Jen turned off his torch and sighed with frustration.

  ‘Please excuse me for one moment, Captain. I would ask you to stand guard at the door. I must consult the Oracle and I can’t have that foolish soldier interrupting me. The Oracle has successfully advised us thus far. Let’s just hope it will help us one last time.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  The Colonel picked up a small knapsack that had been
brought in by the orderly and placed it on the desk.

  ‘It is unfortunate that they murdered the Abbot,’ he said as he undid the straps of his bag. ‘He was a bodhisattva; an enlightened man. He had achieved Buddhahood but remained in the fallen world to help others follow the way. I could have talked to him for hours about the world. Perhaps he could have even been persuaded to help us . . . He might have shown us the way.’

  Colonel Jen looked up at the Captain and concluded in a businesslike tone, ‘That is all. The Oracle will advise.’

  The Captain clicked his heels, saluted and marched out of the door, shutting it behind him.

  Alone, Colonel Jen gazed up at the walls of books and allowed a frown to disfigure his face for a moment. Then he felt inside the bag and pulled out a small leather-bound tube and a well-worn book. Sitting down at the desk, he opened the tube and emptied forty-nine thin wooden sticks into the palm of his right hand. He closed his eyes and his lips moved silently, as if he was saying a prayer.

  Then grasping the sticks in a bunch, he stood them on end on the desk and, opening his fist, let them fall at random onto the surface.

  Sighing heavily, he began the painstaking process of sorting them and making sense of their unique pattern. As he picked the sticks up one by one, he began to draw a series of small dots and dashes on a piece of paper. The essence of the moment had been captured, now the Oracle would speak.

  6

  Inspector Lall was watching Nancy intently as he spoke. In front of them both, on the desk, lay a rolled-up cloth bundle. It was tied together with a piece of filthy string.

  ‘This,’ Lall was saying, ‘was found a week ago on the body of a Yellow Hat Tibetan monk. The monk had frozen to death in a snowdrift, just north of Macleod Ganj in Dharamsala, on the border with Nepal. The autopsy concluded that he died eight or nine days ago. Macleod Ganj, as you may know, is the home of the head of the Tibetan government in exile: the Dalai Lama.’